If I call love, who will answer?

Gargoyles and winged lions.
Bridges and parks.
The gold angel bearing aloft
a cross in the shadow of the winter palace.

A chained bear on its side in the square,
around which a crowd has gathered.
It has possibly been drugged.
Little children can come up

to pet its matted fur, feel its flanks
rise and fall with ragged breath.
Like everything torn out of place,
it reeks of the momentous.

But isn’t that how it is under every facade?
Especially where light looks the most
severe, where the lines try their best
to hold in, deflect, contain.


In response to Via Negativa: Absent.

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